


Stay Strong

by vegxbul



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama & Romance, F/M, Friendship/Love, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29467989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegxbul/pseuds/vegxbul
Summary: She lit yet another cigarette, cursing when she burned herself with the lighter. The grey smoke obscured her view of the sky crying for her “Fuck it!” She got up from the step and began to walk, she didn't care about the hair sticking to her face, she didn't care about the wet clothes, the looks of the people, the soaked shoes, she didn't care about anything anymore.
Relationships: Bulma Briefs/Vegeta
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	Stay Strong

> **“I think scars are like**
> 
> **battle wounds- beatiful,**
> 
> **in a way.They show what**
> 
> **you've been through and**
> 
> **how strong you are for**
> 
> **coming out of it.”**
> 
> **\- Demi Lovato**

She stared straight ahead, her eyes lost in emptiness.

He had done it. . . again.

No one had tried to stop him, no one had tried to defend her, no one had said anything to him, no one. Neither did she. She who should have protected her at the cost of her life, she who had sworn eternal fidelity to that monster, she who hadn't even looked her in the eye when, by now destroyed, he had thrown those marks in her face, she who hadn't dared utter a word in his favor, she who instead had acted like a coward, she who had hurt her more than she had suffered from him.

She lit yet another cigarette, cursing when she burned herself with the lighter. The grey smoke obscured her view of the sky crying for her “Fuck it!” She got up from the step and began to walk, she didn't care about the hair sticking to her face, she didn't care about the wet clothes, the looks of the people, the soaked shoes, she didn't care about anything anymore.

She threw away the cigarette, now reduced to a soggy butt, and put her hands in her pockets to warm herself at least a little. She walked slowly and thought again: everything that had happened in the last few years did not seem true to her. How did this happen? How did it come to that? She didn't know and she didn't even want to know. What's done is done, there's no turning back.

She sat down on a staircase, under the roof of a door, and, standing in a corner so as not to hitch the way of the inhabitants, she embraced her knees, placing her chin on it, staring at an imaginary point in front of her: the last week had been the worst.

She couldn’t help but think about what had happened, what had been tormenting her for five years now. The teachers had seen her strange, had tried to ask her what had happened if there were any problems in the family but she kept denying, saying that everything was fine while her soul, now torn, cried out that she had to talk to someone. But she refused to open her mouth, believing it was only a short period that would soon pass away.

Time passed but the situation did not improve: her father, the one she had always admired and respected, had begun to drink and became violent with her mother and her. The situation deteriorated when, one evening, his father came back drunk and stoned from a work convention:

_It was around 10:00 p. m. and she was still in the kitchen finishing her studies while her mother was doing the dishes of the dinner she had eaten. Suddenly the door opened wide and her father staggered into the house, threw the twenty-four on the couch and leaned on it in a dizzy state. “Hi, honey! How did the conference go?” his wife waved to him, drying her hands “Hi Daddy!” said the girl without taking her eyes off the book. The man did not answer. The girl turned worried about her father’s lack of response. “Daddy? Are you feeling all right?” she asked. In response, the man shrugged his shoulders as if he had suddenly recovered “I’m fine” he replied, biasing._

_He began to walk in their direction at a brisk, staggering pace. He approached his wife and the only thing heard was a rumbling pop and then a thud. “Bitch” he said in a low voice “You're just a whore! I know you're sleeping with someone else! You disgust me!” he spat all the contempt into her face. The woman merely lowered her head and suffered her husband's insults in silence. “What are you talking about, Dad!” “Shut up, Bulma!” Her mother screamed at her. The girl opened her eyes wide, clenched her fists and teeth, but did not utter a word. In the meantime, her father had grabbed her mother by the hair, making her escape a moan of pain "Then you're good for something. . . Since you're no longer able to satisfy me at least I thought you knew how to be a proper mother. You are bad at that too."_

_He let go of his wife's hair, who fell back to the ground in pain, and headed towards the girl who tried to run away: but he was quicker and grabbed her by the hair, making her cry out in pain. “Where do you think you're running to, you little bitch? Do you think you'll get away with this?” Still holding her by the hair, he dragged her to the couch not far away. From then on only tremendous pain, physical and moral._

_The executioner had found his victim to play with and only when he felt the crimson liquid staining his skin did he break away from her. The mother watched helplessly._

From then on things got worse: the father came home more and more often drunk and/or drugged, he beat and insulted her mother, kicked everything he could while swearing and only in the end he abused her, taking away what little dignity she still had left. She hunched her shoulders as a gust of icy wind hit her causing her to shiver with cold and toss her bag into the rain, spilling its contents. “Shit! You've got it in for me, doom!" she said, going to retrieve the soaked bag. “My clothes are all wet now! Fucking shitty day!” she threw the bag on the step and sat back down, shaking like a leaf.

“What are you doing here?” asked a voice. The girl turned to the boy standing next to her. Then she went back to staring at the void. “Don’t you have a home?” he still asked, not receiving an answer.

The girl continued to stare straight ahead without deigning the boy an answer “You look like a tramp in soggy clothes sitting on the step” still no answer “Hey I’m talking with you! Hello?” he said giving her a light tap on the head.

"Fuck you, Vegeta!" she said. "So, you do have a tongue! What are you doing here, Briefs? You seem to have a home and parents, don't you?” He asked again.

“They can go fuck themselves as far as I’m concerned” she replied grinding her teeth “Has your perfect life gone up in smoke? Poor star, what happened to you? Daddy didn’t buy you the dress? Or did your mommy not want to lend you her make-up?” he raged.

She stood up abruptly clenching her fists until her knuckles were white “What do you know about me? What the fuck do you know about me!? What do you know about my life!? Hmm?! You who live in the most disgusting luxury! Surrounded by morons who follow you around like dogs! What do you know about what I'm feeling!? What do you know about pain?!" she replied angrily. The boy watched her stand up, clench her fists and fight the temptation punch him. “I know more than you think.” the girl returned to her seat, throwing curses here and there. “Where are you going? In fact, where do you think you're going?” “I don't know. Anywhere but here.” she answered. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the completely soaked packet of cigarettes: by now the cigarettes were gone. She threw the unusable package into the trash in front of her, missing it. “10 € of cigarettes thrown to the wind." she huddled back, more furious than before, staring at the city traffic. A hand materialized in front of her: it held a new packet of cigarettes she had never seen before. She took one and lit it. Vegeta sat beside her on the damp step, lighting his own.

Bulma handed him the package “Keep it “he said throwing out the smoke “I have a lot of them at home” the girl turned the package between her hands to try to understand what brand it belonged to. “It’s a brand that doesn’t exist in our country, it hasn’t been exported. I think it’s Hungarian or Russian. . . one of those parts there” “And what are you doing with an Eastern European package?” asked Bulma curiously. The boy shrugged his shoulders careless “My father often travels for work. Every time he comes back, he brings something from the place he’s been.” An awkward silence between the two fell. Only the noise of traffic filled that silence.

“May I know why you ran away from home?” suddenly he asked. "It's none of your business," she replied acidly. Should she tell him? Could she? No, he wouldn't understand. The memory hurt, the wound was still open and her psyche wasn't ready to pull all that shit out again.

"Then let's change the question: what brought you here?" What could she say to him? That she ran away? That she didn't know where to go?" I've decided to cut this life. . . I want to start over. . . not here" She looked at her wrists: in those long years the blade had become her only friend, leaving indelible marks on her. It had made her feel alive, and for a few minutes she could forget what was going on outside that door, blissing out at the feeling of freedom. When she noticed him looking at her scars, she hid her hands in her sweatshirt, trying to conceal what she had been through and was going through. She couldn't, he'd call her stupid, no one would understand, not even him.

She took her wet shoulder strap and started to rummage inside, looking for the only one who knows what really happened. Vegeta watched her rummaging through that piece of cloth, which seemed to have to tear at any moment, curious what she wanted to get out of it. In the heat of searching, things fell from the many holes: pens, hairpins, handkerchiefs. Something shiny caught his attention so much that he bent down to pick it up and study it better.

Once he picked up the mysterious object all his doubts were resolved: a blade, which must have once belonged to a pencil sharpener, as small as a pencil eraser, with traces of congealed blood. Did she take the razor blade with her? So, she wanted to continue that vicious cycle, making it indispensable. He couldn't let her end up like him. To become addicted to pain.

“And this?” he asked, showing her the piece of iron. The girl whitened then went back to searching inside the bag like a madwoman, as if she wanted to hide inside it. What was she afraid of? His judgment? “Hey! -I'm talking to you! What were you thinking carrying this around?” She wouldn't answer him. She kept looking for something that even she didn't really know what, as long as she didn't raise her head, as long as she didn't let him see her tears, as long as she didn't let him see her weak, she would keep looking for nothing forever. Unfortunately for her, fate had other plans.

He snatched the worn bag from her hands trying to be heard. “So!? What’s this?! What did you think you were doing? You were going to take her with you!!? You said you wanted to change your life! Well, that’s not the right way! You’re killing yourself! Are you listening to me!?” he shouted at her inches away but she seemed not to be there, still staring at the emptiness in her hands left by the bag. She was there but she wasn't listening to him, she heard him but didn't understand a single syllable. Disaster. Only this word hovered in her mind. A disaster! He had discovered her secret. Her only addiction, her greatest torment, her greatest source of liberation. Everything she'd built up over those years, everything she didn't want leaking out. All destroyed.

A pain in the back of her head brought her back to the present. “What the fuck?” “Do you decide to answer me? Or do you want to continue to remain closed in your own world!?” She continued to look at the tip of her shoes “My world is surely more beautiful than this one. . . Now that you have discovered my secret you will feel satisfied. If you're going to start making fun of me, save your breath: it's neither hot nor cold for me. ”She expected to start hearing him laughing, insulting and making fun of her. Instead, silence fell. She continued to stare at her shoes illuminated by a timid sun that had come out after the storm. “You know what? Suit yourself. After all, who am I to stop you from destroying yourself with your own hands? Keep hurting yourself, keep playing the poor victim, keep trying to get attention, keep shutting yourself in your own world! Keep acting like a little girl, since you're nothing else!" he warmed up, throwing the blade on the ground.

Be a victim? What the fuck was he chattering about? “To be a victim, to seek attention?! Do you think this is really what I’m doing!? Do you really think I got those cuts and then went off to be a poor victim with teenage problems? Do you really think I’m doing all this and then boast about it?!“ she stood up, looking at the boy straight in the face, clenching her fists and screaming all her pain “What do you know about what I’m going through!?! What do you know about me? Nothing! I’m not the spoiled brat you think I’m.” “A no? Well, that’s what it looked like, since instead of dealing with the problem, you’re taking it with you. You’re hurting yourself unnecessarily. What could have happened to you that was so dramatic that you cut yourself?” You have no idea what it's like to suffer" he said. "I was beaten and raped by my own father! Happy now!? Does that sound like a good enough reason!? she had thrown out all at once. She was furious, no one should be allowed to debase what she felt in those delicate moments.

She saw him raise his head and look into her eyes, not saying a word. She looked away in annoyance and sat back down on the step, lighting another cigarette. She inhaled then threw out the gray smoke. Quiet. No one dared speak. The honking of cars and the swearing of passersby seemed out of place in that silence. Something wet fell into her lap: her bag, soaked and old, contained all the memories, happy and not, that she carried with her from that house that had become a hell.

She looked at him questioningly, he had returned her bag, so why did she feel he wanted to ask her something?

“You were looking for something earlier, I think it was important“ he said. Oh yeah! Now she remembered! She went back to rummaging like a madwoman in that worn and damp bag, she had to find it!

It had to be there, she was one hundred and ten percent sure she had taken it with her, where is it? “Here” her gaze lit up. She pulled out a hardcover notebook no bigger than half a sheet of A4. She caressed the cover as if it were precious and delicate. Thankfully, at least that one had been saved from the pouring rain. Noticing the thoughtful look of the boy next to her she explained “This is my diary. I write in it everything that happens in my life: bad things, good things, loves, disappointments, friendships and various things. He's like a best friend to whom I can confide everything.” “To consider an object your best friend you have to be really bad at social relations.” she laughed crystal clear, as she hadn't laughed in days, months maybe years. Even though he made fun of her, it seemed more a sort of concern for her than a criticism. “I have a lot of friends. But how can I be sure that none of them ever open their mouths to anyone by revealing my secrets, though? After so many disappointments from fake friends I decided to tell everything to an inanimate object, sure that he certainly won't go around spilling my secrets. " She didn't know why she was talking to him about it. Maybe it was because he was the only person she knew within miles, maybe it was because she needed to talk, maybe it was because he seemed like someone she could talk to, or maybe it was simply because she wanted to talk to him specifically.

She'd known him for six years, meeting him as a kid in sixth grade and taking him to high school, but she'd never liked him: that serious, grumpy look wasn't very reassuring in an eleven-year-old kid. They had spent middle school in the same class then for the first two years of high school he had sort of disappeared, only to reappear, grown and matured, that year. Despite spending so much time together in class they had never spoken to each other more than necessary, believing there were no topics in common. And instead. . .

And instead, now she found herself telling him what she felt in those moments of pain, despair, truly believing that he could understand her.

“Why did you start doing this to yourself?” he asked, pointing to her wrists, which had been torn by scars and bruises. She shoved her shoulders. In fact, she didn’t know why or when either, she only knew that one night she had found a knife and that’s where it all started. “I have no idea. I only know that when I do it, I feel-“ “free-“ he concluded for her. “As if at that moment, in that world, no one could hurt you. Because you’re already hurting yourself” he continued.

The girl blinked. How did he do that? He had read her mind. “How do you know these things?” the boy merely took off his jacket and lifted the sleeve of his shirt in response “Ooh” was her comment. His right arm was full of scarred cuts, some recent, some deep, up to the crease of the elbow. “And here too” he said lifting the other sleeve. His left arm was also in the same condition as his right, if not worse. “Now do you understand?” he asked her, pulling down his sleeves and slipping his jacket back on.

She never imagined it. So, he felt that, too? She couldn’t believe it. Was that the reason for his shy and closed character? She couldn’t resist asking. “When? Why? What happened?” “6 years ago. My father blamed me for my mother’s illness and beat me, and I was just an 11-year-old boy. I felt guilty about what had happened to my mother and I thought I deserved the insults and the beating. A few months later, my mother died. My father beat me even harder, then he left and I didn’t see him for months. Depression, guilt” he replied calmly. “I haven’t done that for three months now. I’m coming out of it.” She was stunned, staring at her arms covered by the synthetic leather of the vest. Thousands of thoughts were floating in her head.

A siren woke them from their trance. “Shit! The cops!” he exclaimed. He picked up his backpack from the ground and invited her to do the same “If you don't want to be taken home and relive the same nightmare, get up and start running!” She put her bag over her shoulder, threw down her cigarette and, taking the hand he held out to her, she got up from the ground. They started running.

They ran for miles, for hours, minutes or maybe it was just seconds. They felt their legs give out but they didn't stop. Their vision blurred from too much effort but they didn't slow down. Their hearts threatened to burst in their chests but they didn't stop running. Not even when, surrounded by the authorities, they thought they had no escape. Turning into a side street they managed to disappear from their view.

They ran to the central station and boarded the first train leaving: without tickets, without destination, without knowing where they would end up. But they didn’t care. The most important thing was to get out of there. They didn’t know, but far, far away. They were together. They supported each other. That’s all they needed.

“Why did you have your backpack ready? Did you want to leave too?” she suddenly asked. “I’ve been carrying this backpack for years, hoping to find the courage to leave and leave everything behind. When I saw you there, I took the opportunity to escape.” he replied. She kept looking out, trying to observe the changing landscape, leaving behind the city where she was born and to which she would not want to return. At least not right away.

* * *

The sun high in the sky on that dreary January day was trying, in vain, to impose itself on the clouds that had been oppressing it for days. How many years had it been? 10 or 12 for sure. She looked around barely recognizing the landscape. How many changes had been made in 12 years of absence?

How many memories she had in that place: the desperate run, the train, the journey, the authorities, the crying.

She felt her pants being pulled down “Mommy, I'm hungry.” said a child with no more than 6 years old. The woman ducked down looking into the baby's big blue eyes, identical to her own “I have a sandwich in my bag, do you want it?” The boy nodded vigorously and held out his hands to his mother when she pulled out the sandwich. He took it and bit him vigorously, as much as his flickering milk teeth would allow him.

She gave him a kiss on the forehead and stood up again “He might as well have waited until lunchtime since we had breakfast at 11. ”The woman looked at the child then passed her gaze to the man standing next to her “He's just a child. Then look who's talking: you ate two sandwiches not ten minutes ago!” the man looked away, caught in the act.

The young mother smiled at him, he would never change. She turned her gaze to her right recognizing the concrete entrance and the now rusty wrought iron gate “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked as he met her gaze. The woman nodded vigorously and then headed towards the cemetery, going to visit the last person she wanted to remember.

She walked among the tombstones, some old and full of earth, some newer with color photos of the deceased, until she stopped in front of an older one: it seemed like it hadn’t seen a bit of water for centuries, but there were fresh flowers in the vase next to it.

She read the name on the tombstone and convinced herself that what her mother had told her was true: her father had died of cancer four years ago. She should have cried, despair, screamed, done something, shown the affection that had bound her to her parent, released the pain that should have gagged her heart from the news of his death. Instead, she did nothing, not a tear ran down her face, not a word came out of her mouth, not a muscle in her face showed the sadness which, in fact, she did not feel. After everything he’d done to her, would it have been right to mourn his death on his grave? He had ruined himself with his own hands: alcohol and drugs were his ruin. Her mother had told her that after her disappearance her father had become depressed and had begun to drink more and more; the cigarettes and cigars he had never touched began to be a constant presence in his life and on his lips, until cancer had cut him off.

Fallen into a depression? She didn't believe it. A man who ruins his daughter's life couldn't fall into depression over her disappearance, such a man has no feelings, a man who ruins his family didn't deserve to be mourned, a man who kills the vitality of those around him doesn't even deserve to be remembered.

She stood there staring at the tombstone for what seemed like a very long time. She would never forgive him. “Do you intend to stay here staring at this piece of marble for much longer?” her husband joined her with their son in his arms. “No, I’m done, we can go” replied the woman still lost in her thoughts. They walked silently to the exit of the cemetery “Daddy, I want to go down!” the child snuck out of the parent’s grip, who put him down, and then ran wildly through the open space in front of them “So?” the woman looked at him questioning “So what?” !I don’t know, you went to see your father at the cemetery: shouldn’t you be in tears with a broken heart?” he mocked her.

The woman raised her head and crossed her husband's black eyes “How would I have done without you that day? Where would I have ended up? Where would I be now?” “You'd either end up in the hands of the authorities or in the hands of some pedophile who’s having fun with 17-year-olds” he sentenced, stopping himself. The woman hugged him and let her husband's strong arms hold her.

“I owe you everything, Vegeta. You saved me from a life I didn't want” she stood up on her toes and kissed the man on the lips, with love, with affection, with gratitude.

That man, at that time just a boy, had lived the same life as her, had felt the same pain, had trusted only himself and her. He had helped her save herself and him, they had escaped together and, together, they had faced life with its difficulties. They had supported each other, comforting each other, growing away from a life that had only worn them down, away from those who, envious of their innocence, wanted their harm. And while they were growing up, the feeling, the bound that had grown with them, transforming from a simple friendship to a brotherly love and then, in the end, blossoming into a passionate love. Between arguments and nights spent rolling around in blankets they had discovered the other side of the coin that reported their pain.

Nothing had separated them since. Nothing had been able to destroy their bond, forged by the greatest pain and the most intense love. And Trunks, their firstborn, was the fruit of that intense bond: they had promised each other and sworn that they would not let their child go through what they had gone through. They would die of pain. Now that, having hit rock bottom, they had stood up and would do anything to keep that balance in their lives. Of course, what they suffered could not be erased, either in their minds or on their skin. But you could just move on and forget about it.

> **“I'm a warrior**
> 
> **and you can never**
> 
> **hurt me again.”**

**Author's Note:**

> So what do you think? I thank angelo_nero for having this magnificent idea. She wrote the fic and I translated it.   
> I hope you liked it.💕✨


End file.
